Metro shorts - 4

There’s nobody at the metro station. It is late on a weekday, and the only souls in sight are one cleaner on each platform; people who go invisible in the teeming crowds (or who only emerge in the wee hours, who can tell?) I’m feeling wearied, my emotional scales are off balance and my body vaguely aches all over. I tap my feet impatiently to the music in my ears, willing the train to come.

It rolls in sleepily, and I plop into one of the folding seats, mentally beginning the countdown to the time I reach home. It’s cold. Next stop. The doors open and a tall man in faded clothes begins to gather his things to step in. There are two suitcases, and a big Ikea bag bloated to the brim. Despite the volume and number of luggage, he doesn’t seem to struggle, nor in a hurry. His motions are well-oiled, and I watch him with something resembling admiration.

Once inside, he seats himself right across me. He neither crosses nor avoids my gaze, even though mine is scrutinizing his face. I cast a look at his bags, and realize that he is homeless. Clothes peek out of the suitcase, and the Ikea bag is full of quite a collection of odds and ends – I spy children’s colouring books, bits of cardboard, newspaper, books, all in seemingly good condition, and wonder whether he enjoys reading? It seems absurd. My gaze goes back to him as he rummages beneath his seat to pick up a roll of abandoned tissue paper. He looks at it, hesitates, puts it back down, then lifts it up again.

Next stop. He puts the roll into his Ikea bag with a sigh and gets up to leave. In that instant, I realize he is probably collecting paper to keep him warm in the streets at night. I look at his face again, searching for an expression – dismay, sadness, frustration, anger – nothing. It remains resolutely blank, the face of a person whose dignity is untouched by his circumstances.

I watch him step out of the train with something resembling self-reprehension. I am no longer tired, no longer cold.